


Nothing Without You

by adruggedcuppa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But then Sherlock makes it up to John in the end, It's pretty serious, Sherlock and John get into a fight, So it's alright, drunk!John, first fic, johnlockchallenges, mentions of guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adruggedcuppa/pseuds/adruggedcuppa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8:57 pm<br/>God Sherlokc im sosory yuore my best freidn ilove yuo</p><p>His brow furrowed and something uncomfortably similar to fear began forming in his gut. John didn’t talk like that, not unless something was wrong, and the sudden surplus of typos indicated clumsy fingers - something a steady, methodical man like him definitely wouldn’t have, even inebriated, unless he was scared; trying to type fast because he knew he wouldn’t have long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Without You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for the Johnlock Valentines Day Challenge (and I realize that it's a little bit late, but I'm shit with deadlines)
> 
> For the lovely -staying-myself-
> 
> The prompt was "Gunshot, Danger, Drunk"
> 
> I hope that everything is to your liking!! (Sorry, this is the first fic that I've actually posted online, so I'm an amateur)

John couldn’t remember ever being this ticked off at Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t an ‘oh, right, Sherlock’s being a git again, better go wait it out in my room’ kind of anger. No, this was a full out, furious, raging flame that ate its way from Johns head all the way to the soles of his feet as he walked away from Baker Street. He wanted to hit Sherlock over the head with a crowbar, or disembowel him with that riding crop he was so fond of. Anything to get him to stop being the gigantic cock that he was.

It wasn’t even Johns fault. All he’d done was ask Sherlock to sign his name on the anniversary card John had written for the detectives parents, having known that Sherlock wouldn’t bother. 

Really. He was just trying to be nice.

But Sherlock, irritated as he was in the middle of a failing experiment, had to go an run his mouth about how he ‘didn’t care about that, John. Caring is a disadvantage that I don’t have time for.’ and how ‘everyone in my life is either an incompetent imbecile that’s only useful for mindless entertainment and mockery or someone I just put up with when secretly, all I want to do is shove their body into the Thames.’

John felt rage simmer deep in his belly. Where did that self righteous bastard get off on basically telling John that the past two years of their friendship didn’t mean anything? Was it even a friendship to him? If it wasn’t which of the two categories did he fall into?

John dispelled the questions with a swift shake of his head. He knew early on that that Sherlock wasn’t interested in relationships, friendship or otherwise, and he went into it fully determined to keep whatever they had strictly platonic.

But somewhere along the line, John forgot. Somewhere amidst the sound of Sherlocks deep baritone, and Sherlocks unexpected sense of humor, and Sherlock lustrous silver eyes, (god, those eyes) John fell for him. And in falling for him, John forgot how cold, how agonizingly cruel he could be. But every now and then, Sherlock did something like this, and the reminder was enough to send John rocking back on his heels. It made him wonder sometimes, why he bothered even putting up with it.

The thought stopped him in his tracks. Why did he put up with Sherlock Holmes? He was nothing but a spoiled, selfish baby stuck in an adults body, so what was keeping John there? You already know this. You’re in love with him, idiot. A voice whispered snidely in his mind, and John felt the beginnings of a migraine creep into his temples.

God, he needed a drink.

 

***

Sherlock sniffed derisively. It’d been approximately one hour since John had stormed out, leaving Sherlock alone with the dust mites and a whirlwind of thoughts.

He didn’t know why he said those things to John. Well, okay, that wasn’t exactly true. John had interrupted him in the middle of an important experiment to sign a card for people he barely talked to in the first place, and to be honest, Sherlock had been having a bad day already.

He’d woken up late (a rare occurrence, extremely like that John had slipped a melatonin pill into his tea that night) and lost his chance to observe a critical stage in the twelve day decomposition of a human lung after exposure to various chemicals. Afterwards, he’d called Lestrade to see if there were any new cases, but nobody picked up. Nobody came by the flat with anything either. 

As much as he hoped it would, the rest of the day didn’t do anything to lift his spirits. Mrs. Hudson tripped over the rug, spilling jam and tea on his coat; the mold from the head in the fridge had spread to the actual food, leaving nothing for him to eat (because as much as he argued about ‘transport’, there was only so long his weak body could go without food) and John called to say he wouldn’t be back until 7. Which left Sherlock hungry, bored, irritable and valiantly attempting to get the cloying smell of raspberries and Earl Grey out of his clothing. So it really wasn’t his fault that he snapped. Anybody, even someone with Sherlocks level of expertise in dealing with the asinine, would’ve done the same.

 

Sighing, he picked up his phone and clicked it open. He hadn’t checked it since John stormed out, despite the constant buzzing.

17 New Messages

The messaged started out fairly normal. ‘I’m at The Winchester. Don’t wait up.’ ‘The scotch here is surprisingly bitter.’ But soon, it devolved into taunts and insults. ‘You’re a cock’, ‘Go to hell’, ‘Stop being a prat’, ‘Apologize and I’ll come back’, ‘You don’t care about anyone’ - all of them containing at least one grammar mistake. John was drunk then, he deduced easily, before continuing to read. It was the last text, sent about twenty minutes prior, that made him stop. 

8:57 pm  
God Sherlokc im sosory yuore my best freidn ilove yuo

His brow furrowed and something uncomfortably similar to fear began forming in his gut. John didn’t talk like that, not unless something was wrong, and the sudden surplus of typos indicated clumsy fingers - something a steady, methodical man like him definitely wouldn’t have, even inebriated, unless he was scared; trying to type fast because he knew he wouldn’t have long. A sick theory came to mind. Fingers trembling, he exited the ‘Messages’ screen and began to dial a number. With bated breaths, Sherlock waited.

“Hello?”

“Lestrade. Has the Yard gotten any reports about a pub named ‘The WInchester’ in the last twenty minutes?”

“Yes, actually.” The DIs voice sounded shocked. “I’m headin’ over there myself right now. Some bystanders reported sounds of guns goin’ off inside the pub. Why?”

Sherlocks stomach dropped to his feet. He barely registered the voice in his ear asking him if he was alright before choking out a reply.

“I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

He ran down the stairs, not bothering to grab his coat, and pulled the door open quickly, only to slam it shut behind him a few seconds later. Sherlock hailed a cab, and it felt like forever before one finally rolled to a stop next to him. He jumped in and barked out an address, instructing the cabbie to go as quickly as possible, before settling back into his seat to knead at his temples, frustration and anxiety threatening to boil over inside of him. If something happened to John...

No. He shook his head and glanced out the window, noticing that they were still about six blocks away from the pub, and proceeded to launch himself from the cab and into the late evening traffic.

Sherlock ran, ran for what felt like days, ran until he didn’t think he could run anymore, and when he finally got there, it was to a flurry of activities. There were police cars and SWAT trucks and ambulances. For a few terrifying moments, he could only assume the worst. But he didn’t see any body bags, and the people they were loading into the ambulances didn’t have the same height, nor stature, of the only person that mattered.

Seconds later, Sherlock spotted John huddled up in a ridiculous orange blanket near Lestrade and Donovan. Unabashed relief swelled within him as he walked over.

“Sherlock --” John began, spotting him, but before he had the chance to finish, he found himself encased tightly between to strong arms. His mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise, but no sound came out. Tentatively, curiously, he placed a hand on the taller mans back, between his shoulder blades. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t reply for a few moments, opting instead to leave his face buried in the crook of John’s neck, breathing in his scent before pulling back.

“Um...” He coughed awkwardly. “John. I... realize that my earlier statement may have been misconstrued in a rather... bad way and for that, I apologize.” People were staring now, shocked into silence at the detectives odd behavior, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, or care. “I was under great duress, but I would like you to know that I --” He paused. “-- care about you and the thought of losing your company made me realize that I need you with me.”

Drunk as he was, John could see that Sherlock was uncomfortable with the uncharacteristically emotional speech he was giving, but let him go on for a few more minutes. He thinks that somewhere in his mind, he knew that on some level, Sherlock did care, but sometimes it was nice to get confirmation.

“Your friendship is... invaluable to me, and...” He swallowed hesitantly, conflict clear in his eyes. “I would be nothing without you.

John smiled fondly. Although it was very sweet, he couldn’t help feeling like maybe Sherlock was overreacting. They’d been through far worse together, and none of those instances had ever spurred such a reaction. But John was far too tired, and far too drunk, to think about it anymore. So instead, he reached up to cup the back of his friends neck and brought him in for a hug, letting unspoken words of love and agreement settle softly between them.


End file.
